


What's Wrong With Being a Little Bad?

by allgoodsaiyansdeservetails



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Multi, NRC students swap roles with classic Disney villains, Roleswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26853349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allgoodsaiyansdeservetails/pseuds/allgoodsaiyansdeservetails
Summary: A fairy tale is only as strong as its villain. Maybe if it had been you who appeared back then, we could've written a better story – or at least a happier one.
Comments: 46
Kudos: 190





	1. Riddle

The queen of hearts is a little boy with hair like blood, a severe, scowling mouth, and eyes ready to cry. An endless barrage of rules leap from his tongue. Some of them are contradictory. None of them make any sense. But then, neither does he. He sentences his subjects to death one second and then begs his friends not to leave him the next. On its own, that would be strange enough, but he's usually talking to the same people. Alice hasn't seen him actually chop off anyone's head yet. She wonders if he'd do it, when he so clearly doesn't want to.

“He's a pitiful little thing,” sighs the Cheshire Cat, who told her to call him Che'nya and then laughed when she asked why. “His mother came up with all these rules, you see, and she drilled them into his skull so he'd never forget.”

Alice gasps and covers her mouth. “But that's awful!”

“She was an awful woman,” Che'nya agrees. “She's gone now, perhaps. I certainly haven't seen her. But then, sometimes people can't see me.”

“Is she dead?” Alice asks, and then feels rotten for doing so.

“Perhaps,” Che'nya repeats. “It's all relative, after all.”

“I don't understand you.”

“That's fine!” he chirps. “I don't understand you, either.”

Maybe that's the truth of Wonderland – strange people misunderstanding each other. That would explain why the card with the diamond on his face smiles when he's not happy, why the two with spades and hearts insult each other when they're clearly friends, and why the man with the clover stamped proudly beneath his eye does nothing to stop the queen. Even when he so clearly wants to.

“I can't tell him,” Clover says when she presses her case. “It would break his heart.”

Alice wants to stamp her foot in frustration. Only good manners keep her from doing so. “If he keeps doing this, it'll break anyway!”

“Maybe so,” Clover says, smiling gently, “but at least it won't have been me that broke it.”

“Unbelievable.” Alice crosses her arms. “And unacceptable.”

“Why?” asks Diamond. “He's not a bad ruler, you know. And he does care about us.”

She glares at them both. How can they be so blind? “It doesn't matter if he's doing a good job! He's tearing himself apart.”

“Aren't we all?” Diamond says thoughtfully, but Alice pays him no mind.

“He's going to destroy himself!” she declares. “And if you're not going to do anything about it, I will!”

They both stare at her then, Diamond and Clover, something fragile and sharp-edged behind their eyes.

“Do you think you can?” asks Diamond eventually.

“It's completely impossible,” says Clover, “which means she's all but guaranteed to succeed.”

Alice doesn't know what they're talking about. She finds she doesn't care, either. This world is topsy-turvy and confusing, but everyone in it seems to be having fun, except one. Even Diamond cracks a real smile sometimes, when he's looking at Clover, but the queen? The queen's only smile is a rictus grin.

“I'm going to save him,” Alice repeats. “You can help me or you can see yourselves right out.”

“This is our courtyard,” Diamond protests half-heartedly. “We work here.”

“Then you'd better help.”

They do.


	2. Leona

“Do you know,” Uncle Scar asks, “what my name is?”

Simba blinks at him. “Isn't it Scar?”

A low, bitter chuckle. “No, Simba, it isn't. My name is Leona.”

“Leona? Lee-oh-na. That's a cool name!” Simba scampers toward Uncle Scar – Uncle Leona? – with a wide grin. “Why'd you change it?”

“I didn't.”

“Then why doesn't anyone call you by it?”

“Because,” Uncle Leona purrs, “of this.” He paws at his face, or rather, at the thin white line which crosses his right eye. “They look at this and they think it defines me. In other words, anyone who calls me 'Scar' is saying that this is all I am.”

That... doesn't sound right. “But everyone calls you Scar.”

“Yes,” Uncle Leona says with an unpleasant smirk, “they do.”

“But you aren't just your scar!” Simba blurts out, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “You're big and warm and you let me jump on you when you're sleeping, and you never, ever yell at me! Not like Zazu!”

“When have I ever 'let' you jump on me?” Uncle Leona sighs heavily and curls up on the floor of his cave. “Forget it. It's an old complaint of mine. There's no need for you to worry your fluffy little head over it.”

But Simba doesn't forget. And as the days pass, he finds himself unpleasantly surprised by how many lions call Leona 'Scar' with expressions like they smell something foul.

“Why don't they use his name?” he asks his father one evening, as the light begins to set over their kingdom. “He's still part of our family, isn't he?”

Father makes a thinking face. Not his usual thinking face, where it's clear he's forgotten what he was going to say and is trying to remember, but the face which means he's trying to figure out how much of a real problem he should tell Simba. “Scar is... complicated. He was my heir before you were born, but he was never what people expected him to be, and he didn't appreciate that. As such, he is not well-liked. Does that make sense to you?”

Simba nods, a trace of unease in his stomach. “Couldn't you change it? Make them use his real name?”

“I wish I could,” father says heavily, “but it's been so long I doubt it would stick. But perhaps it will be different with you.”

“Why?”

A lopsided smile. “The last time I called him Leona, he laughed in my face and threatened to drop me into the path of a stampede.”

That sounds like Uncle Leona. “He really is mean sometimes, huh?”

“Yes,” father says sadly, “he is.”

Uncle Leona makes several other threats in that vein, sometimes even when Simba is there to listen, but he never does follow through. Instead, he takes Simba out deep into the Savannah, surveying every corner of the kingdom. It's him that teaches Simba how to hold himself like a king, to move proudly through the brush so that everyone can see him and know that he's on patrol, not hunting. Uncle Leona also tells him about other prides, the challenges he can expect to face, and the best way to take a grown lion down without risking serious injury, long before father brings up the subject.

Most importantly, it's Uncle Leona who takes him to the Elephant Graveyard. It's a terrifying place. There's no sun, no reassuring symbol of authority, and everything is bigger than a half-grown lion. Simba scrambles over crumbling bone, struggling to keep up, while Uncle Leona leaps with easy grace. All the lions who scoffed and called him weak would eat their words if they saw him now. Maybe, Simba thinks, Uncle Leona was built for this kind of thing – slipping through and over obstacles that everyone else would give up and go around.

At the centre of the heap of the bones live the hyenas. They're loud, and scary, and hungry. Most of all, they're desperate.

“No king down here,” the big female cackles. Simba doesn't know her name. She didn't offer it. “Just us! Starving. These were our lands once, before you and yours forced us out.”

“Not you, you,” laughs the smaller male, who did give his name – Ruggie. “Species you. Pride you. The big noisy bastards who keep chasing us off our kills and then calling us filthy scavengers. Lions sure are hypocrites, huh?”

Simba wants to reject those words. But he can't. Not when he looks at Uncle Leona and sees nothing but weary, hateful understanding. 

“It was before my time,” Uncle Leona rumbles. “I've done my best to fix things, but I am not exactly liked back home. The most I can do is provide for them.” He looks at Simba, considering. “Perhaps things will be different, with you.”

“Why?”

Uncle Leona smiles. It's not a pleasant smile – it never is, with him – but it's honest in a way father's has never been. “Because you are still your father's heir, despite how close we've become. That means you have influence, Simba. Power. Use it wisely.”

Simba's father dies eventually, fighting another pride's male for territory. The challenger doesn't live to celebrate his victory. Simba and Uncle Leona rise up and tear him apart. It's a hard fight and Simba isn't fully grown. He comes away with his own scars matting his flank. Uncle Leona treats them. The pride seems to look at him differently after.

That's good, but it's not enough. Simba needs his uncle to be loved, not just tolerated. He wants to spend his reign with Uncle Leona at his back, staring deep into the shadows with him. Only that way can they make the shadows disappear and bring everyone – really everyone – into the light.

“You have such faith in me,” Uncle Leona drawls. “Don't you ever worry that it's misplaced?”

“No,” Simba tells him, “never.”

For a long moment, they lock eyes. Then, finally, Uncle Leona looks away. 

“Do what you want, then,” he grumbles.

And Simba does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao Leona's a furry


	3. Azul

The sea witch lives in a winding spire of stone and coral on the cool north side of the city. It doesn't try and compete with the splendor of King Triton's palace; its smooth architecture leans into a more modern style. Sleek curved lines, graceful whorls, glass and crystal to let the light come through. On clear days, when the sea is still and perfectly transparent, his home is a delicate rainbow prism. Even on murky days, it still glows a ghostly blue. Ariel's always loved to look at it, but this is the first time she's approached.

Her father's always kept her from the sea witch's business, even the lower floors which only deal in exotic food and drink. Something about temptation leading nowhere good. Well, she think viciously, screw that. And screw him. She slithers down the winding paths set up for crabs and shellfish, keeping low to the ground so the glint of scales won't give her away, and slips through the nearest opening.

Inside is vast and cavernous, filled with smooth lounging stones, soft magic lights, and odd trinkets. It reminds her of her grotto, if the walls were mirrored. And if all the furniture matched. And if nothing had bites taken out by curious sharks. It's all so fascinating that she dithers despite herself. 

She can't help it. There's so much here, and it's all so neat. Some of it even looks based on human artifacts! Though she's not sure why there are combs near what's clearly a dining nook. She's considering whether or not to try one out when the water in the room shifts. 

Her gills flutter anxiously as she pulls back. Something else is here. And whatever it is, it's a lot bigger than her.

There – a shadow in the corner of her vision. She turns, trying to keep it in sight, but it's no use. It's quick, and it knows how to conceal itself in the shadows. She ends up spinning in a circle.

Laughter floats toward her from all sides. “What are you looking for, little fish?”

Ariel swallows hard, but squares her shoulders. “I'm not a little anything.”

“Eh?” comes the lilting response. She's never heard a voice like this before, so soft and inviting, but completely without respect. “But you're tiny. Like a minnow.”

“A what?”

The shadow darts into a cranny in the rock instead of answering. Moments later, it emerges again, but something is different. Its movements are calmer; less manic, more considering. When it speaks again, its voice has dropped. “Pardon me, your highness, but are you lost? We would be happy to show you the way forward.”

Some of the softness is gone. Respect wells up in its place. Dread trickles down Ariel's spine.

“Don't tell anyone!” she begs, holding a finger to her lips. “My father can't know I'm here!”

The shadow tilts its head – his head? – and hums softly. Someone else hums in harmony. “Might you be here for our services, then?”

She nods, a lump in her throat. “I want to make a deal.”

“Then you're in the right place!” chirps the lilting voice. A second shadow darts out from behind the first and slithers into the light.

Ariel's first impression is 'fins.' Lots and lots of fins, which – she's not actually that into fins, has never really liked her own, but this guy makes them work. He's a long, long creature, this eel, his head and hands easily twice the size of hers. A solid three quarters of his body are composed of undulating vertical flukes and his colouring is classical deep sea: very dark, lots of greens, sharp white countershading. It's been out of style for a while, Atlantica's beauty standards leaning more toward cetacean tails and warmer tones, but he looks right at home in these elegant halls. Like this is the place he belongs. 

For a moment, she's so full of jealousy she can't even think. Then he smiles and it's all she can do not to jerk away. Why is he challenging her? No, scratch that, why does he have so many teeth?

“Floyd,” the calm voice says reprovingly. “Don't scare her away.” The first shadow joins him in the light and – oh.

“You're twins,” Ariel breathes. Twin morays. That's... unusual, to say the least.

“Yes,” says the calm one, inclining his head toward her. “We're the welcoming committee. Allow us to show you in?”

“Be our guest!” sings the excitable one as he loops in on himself.

Ariel nods and swims forward. Soon she has an eel on either side, spiraling around her in abstract patterns and humming quietly to each other. Their eyes are always on her back. It's not exactly comfortable, but she bears with it. She's so close now. Her dream is almost here.

Finally, she sees it – a room lit by a pale violet glow. She speeds up, fat, clumsy flukes carrying her as quickly as they can. When she bursts inside, the sea witch is waiting.

“You're human!” As soon as it's out of her mouth, she feels like slapping herself. Of course he's not human. They're so deep underwater that sunlight can barely reach them. Hasn't she learned firsthand that humans can't breathe underwater?

“Not quite, but it suits me to give off the illusion at times. Welcome, Princess Ariel. I hear you have a request for me?” The man sitting cross-legged in a huge, carved shell has a kind laugh. Dark fabric clings to his pale arms like octopus skin, a covering that stretches all the way to the tips of his toes. A ring of white hair drifts around his head like seafoam, but Ariel isn't looking at that. She hardly even glances at his face. All her attention goes to his slim, gorgeous legs.

“I want to be human,” she says in a rush. “I want legs. I want to go up and there find my prince again.”

The sea witch nods and uncrosses his legs. Her eyes stay glued to them as he kicks lightly off the floor and drifts toward her. He's smaller than she expected, but there's not a shred of fear or weakness in his voice. “I can make you a potion. It'll give you legs, shrink you down, smooth out all the tiny inaccuracies until no one can tell you aren't human. But,” he warns, “it is very close to permanent. And I will need something as collateral.”

She wants. She's never wanted so badly in her life. But still, she has to ask... “Collateral?”

“It's a trade,” the lively eel hums. “Payment for services rendered.”

“Though of course it will be returned to you if you decide to break the contract,” the calm one adds.

“Basically, it gives me a hold on you if you try to break your word. Speaking of which.” The sea witch snaps his fingers and a brilliant gold contract writes itself into existence. It shines so brightly it hurts to look at. “One transformation potion, one discreet ride to the surface, and I'll even make sure you wash up near your prince's kingdom.”

Ariel's tail goes stiff with excitement. “You know him?”

“It's my business to know things,” the sea witch says. “Onto the subject of payment – usually, I ask for something physical to ensure my clients don't renege on their word, but in this situation that seems unnecessary. After all, you don't want this body, do you?”

“No,” she whispers. She doesn't want it at all. She never has. It's not a matter of not loving herself enough – she does, honest. Her body is pretty and strong and carries her through the sea. It just doesn't feel like hers.

“I see,” he hums. “Poor unfortunate soul. How about I give you a bargain? You become human and go to your prince, and I'll hold your voice as collateral. If, in three days time, he truly falls in love with you, I'll return it. If he doesn't, or if you choose to leave him, I'll keep your voice and you can keep your legs. Either way, I'll ask that you help me out if I'm ever up where you walk, all right?”

“That – do you mean it?” She can stay human even if she fails? “But wait, how will he fall in love with me if I can't speak to him?”

“Of course. I know a thing or two about longing to be part of another world, so I can't help but feel obliged to interfere. Even if your father finds out, I'll make sure he can't drag you back.” The sea witch drifts past her to where the eel twins dance, sliding gracefully into the space between their intertwining bodies. “Real love can transcend any barrier. It may not always be kind or gentle, but there's nothing which can compare. Though of course, only you can decide what is and isn't worth the struggle. Either way, take this as a chance to get to know him. If he won't give you his time, then perhaps you'll be better off without him.” 

“Well said,” murmurs the calm eel.

The lively one chuckles. “Azul, you sap!”

The sea witch ignores them both in favour of stretching out his hand to Ariel. The contrast floats gracefully above his fingers, waiting for her signature. “What do you say? Do we have a deal?

Ariel's never smiled so hard in her life. “Yes, we do!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ariel: I don't like my body. I want to be something else.  
> Azul: Big mood.


	4. Jamil

The grand vizier has a severe face and hard eyes. His voice is flat, almost dead. It makes Abu's fur stand on end. Aladdin would be much the same, he's sure, if he was only a little less preoccupied with the man's words. 

Across the room, Jasmine – Princess Jasmine, how did he not notice – stares at the grand vizier with equally hard eyes. “You say you'll help us? How? And why?”

“Yes, your highness.” The parrot on the man's shoulder beats its wings as he bows, the gesture courteous and utterly hollow. It's not like the grand vizier hates her, Aladdin thinks. It's more like he doesn't feel anything. That's... uncomfortable. “I'm offering to give my backing to this young man, of course. Or do you truly think the Sultan will consider a street urchin as a candidate for your hand? Mark my words, it doesn't matter how talented a man is – his station will determine his future.”

“But you can change that?” Aladdin blurts out. It comes out so high, so desperate, and ugh. Who let him have a functioning tongue? 

The grand vizier nods, every inch as regal as Jasmine. “I can. My position gives me leeway that neither of you possess.”

“I am the princess,” Jasmine challenges. “I can do whatever I want.”

“You are,” he allows, “and your father is the Sultan. Your authority is as unquestioned as his, and mine is whatever the two of you give me.”

There are implications in that sentence, if the way Jasmine narrows her eyes says anything. 

Aladdin breaks in again before she can say something spiteful. “What are you offering? Sir?”

The grand vizier's gaze is heavy. Measuring. Aladdin's rarely seen a man with power look at him rather than through him. He's not sure he likes the sensation. “You seem a bright boy. I will make you my assistant. Should you prove yourself skilled and dedicated, I will raise you through the ranks, until you have earned a role high enough that the princess can afford to make her interest known.” A dry note enters the man's voice. “She'll still be marrying down, of course, but short of pulling a kingdom out of the ether, there's nothing I can do about that.”

It sounds... incredible. A deal that no one could turn down. And yet, with Abu trembling on his shoulder, Aladdin is certain there's a catch. He's just not sure if he dares look for it.

If he does this, he might become worthy of her, right?

Jasmine has no such compunctions. “And what's in it for you?”

The grand vizier smiles. It transforms his entire face. In one breath, he goes from empty sand to a garden bursting with life. Suddenly, Aladdin realizes the grand vizier is very young – no more than thirty, surely – and his hard eyes are terribly sad.

“I am the man who carries out your father's orders, and that leaves me with many difficult tasks on my plate. Nothing dangerous,” he assures them, “but complex. Tricky, even. If a clever boy were to assist me with them – a boy whose loyalty was assured – then perhaps I could better apply myself in other areas.” His gaze shifted onto Jasmine and stayed there. “Diplomacy, for one. Our neighbours are less than happy with you at the moment, your highness.”

Jasmine flushes red and huffs. “He was asking for it!”

“I am aware,” he says blandly. “And so are Prince Achmed's parents. This is the primary reason your little stunt with Rajah did not plunge us into war.”

“War?” Aladdin squeaks. Jasmine does not, but her mouth tightens.

“You are royalty,” the grand vizier tells them. “That means you have great power over the lives of others. This doesn't have to be a bad thing. Just look at your father – hard-working, beloved by his people, knowledgeable in many areas, and wise enough to seek expert advice when his own knowledge comes up short. But you must always keep your position in mind,” he says, unyielding as iron. “Look at this young man. Think what kind of hardship your carelessness could have brought down on him.”

Aladdin glances at her and bites his lip. He wants to tell her that it doesn't matter, that he would've borne any hardship for the sake of meeting her, but that would be weird, wouldn't it? They've just met. 

Jasmine rolls her eyes. “You've said this before, Jamil.”

“And yet your behaviour has yet to change.” The grand vizier sighs. “Such is the nature of youth, I suppose. Well,” he asks Aladdin, “shall we get started? I do hope you see the sense of accepting my offer.”

“I – yes,” Aladdin says, suddenly very aware of how under-dressed he is. He's not what to do with his hands. “So, uh, what's next?”

Another of those dazzlingly warm smiles. “First, we build up a foundation for your new scholarly identity and get you settled in. Then we'll see about your first job. There's a cave nearby which has some interesting stories around it, but I'm afraid that caving isn't my strong suit and I haven't been able to find a way in.”

Oh, good. Something easy. Aladdin thumps his chest and grins. “You can count on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Jamil and the Genie both wished for their freedom and a good time was had by all.


	5. Vil

“Purse your lips,” the king says, holding a tube of vivid red lipstick in his hand.

Snow White purses her lips obediently. She stays quiet as her father applies pigment in deft, careful strokes. 

“Good,” he says when he's finished. The lipstick vanishes and a soft tissue is provided. “Blot.”

She presses her lips to the paper and then shows him her handiwork. He takes her chin in his firm grip and tilts it upward, turning her one way, then another. A thin smile crosses his lips. It's beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful.

“Lovely,” he tells her. “Excellent work.”

As soon as she's able, Snow White ducks her head. “Thank you, father,” she says, as she's been trained to do. And then, because she is no longer a little girl, content to be dressed up and painted like a doll, she asks, “Why the lipstick? My lips are red enough without it.”

“I know, dear,” the king says. “But natural gifts are no excuse not to work hard. Knowing how to take care of yourself will pay off once you're older and your looks begin to fade. True beauty is the result of study and effort. Remember this, Snow White.”

She nods seriously and fixes it in her head. “I'll work hard, then.”

His smile softens. For a moment, she thinks he's going to say something. Instead, he reaches down and pats her on the head. His hand isn't much bigger than hers, but it's terribly warm.

“I will,” she repeats. “I'm going to be the most beautiful in the whole kingdom.”

“I believe you.”

Snow White loves her father. He's hard and his words are scathing when she messes up, but he makes sure she learns magic and poisons as well as manners and dancing. When she expresses an interest in animals, he waves his hand and she's granted access to the royal menagerie, and better yet, the forest. It's fascinating. The huntsman he assigns her as guard is somewhat off-putting, but looking past the surface was the first thing Snow White learned, so she looks at his effort instead and values him for it. And she always remembers to take care in how she presents herself. 

This is Snow White's understanding of family: a king and a princess and a country, a teacher and a student and a classroom, a harsh voice and a firm hand pressing her to be the best she can be and a whole world to show her why it matters. She has no other siblings and she does not really remember her mother, but that's fine. She has her kind, hard-working father, and both she and the country blossom under his firm guidance. 

On the day his magic mirror tells them both that she's the fairest in all the land, her father hugs her. Snow White hugs him back and ignores the dampness soaking into her dress.

“I promised,” she tells him.

He laughs wetly. “So you did.”


	6. Idia

When Meg sold her soul to the lord of the underworld, she expected – well, she expected a lot of things. Like for her sacrifice to matter to that short-sighted, flighty idiot she made the mistake of giving her heart to. Ugh, forget it. Point is, she expected to do some suffering. Oh, maybe not in Tartarus, but Asphodel? Eternal boredom for the girl whose love was too boring to keep her man. Yeah, that sounds about right.

What she actually gets is a key to the underworld, an increasingly-faint and unsteady pulse, and regular appointments with a jittery god who is quite eager to see how this whole soul-trading business plays out. Because apparently this is the first time he's done it. What the hell.

The lord of the underworld is not what Meg expected, either. Oh, sure, he's tall, blue, and hellish, but he also squeaks when she moves suddenly and makes sure to keep a tables' length between them at all times. He spends most of his non-appointment days sitting in front of those odd mirrors she's only ever seen in the underworld, tapping his fingers on flat, carved gemstones and watching patterns shift before his eyes. Mostly he seems to be upset with what he sees. Meg has no idea why. When he's especially startled, or – on rare occasions – angry, his hair erupts from cool blue flames to vivid crimson.

That hair goes down to the floor. When it burns, the whole room goes up in smoke. It's intimidating – he's intimidating – but by the gods, he's such a coward.

“You,” she says, “need to get out more.”

“Counterargument – no, I don't.”

“When was the last time you saw the sun?”

He flinches a bit at her tone, but he also scoffs, and doesn't actively scurry away from her. Progress. “The dawn of creation? When dear old dad spat us all up? I don't – like – sunlight.”

She looks him up and down, taking in his dead blue skin and the deep bags under his eyes. “Yeah. I can tell.”

“I don't need sunlight,” he says. “I'm a god. I can stay down here indefinitely.”

“You're whining.”

“Am not.”

“Stop whining.”

His shoulders slump. “Don't you have stuff to do in the living world?”

Meg rolls her eyes and lets out her own scoff. It hurts less that way. “Ugh, please. I'm on a break from living guys.”

The lord of the underworld, brother of Zeus, owner of her soul, gives her the most hilariously terrified look she's ever seen. “I-I'm not – we're not – no!”

She can't help it. She cracks up. “Pfft, no! No way! Not in a million years!”

“Oh thank me,” he wheezes. “Never scare me like that again.”

Meg never does manage to get him to make exactly that face again, no matter how hard she tries, but the ridiculous look of judgement he gets when she brings Hercules down to negotiate a timeshare agreement for her soul is equally satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hercules is a god in this one because Idia never touched the kid. Or met him. Or came to any of Zeus' announcement parties. He probably sent an awesome baby shower gift, though.
> 
> I guess Meg is a platonic Persephone in this version of the story?


	7. Malleus

Thunder rolls overhead. If Aurora's little mare loved her even slightly less, she would be racing home riderless. As is, her ears are pinned to her skull and no amount of soft whispers can make her stop tossing her head.

“Good girl,” Aurora whispers, the sound lost in the wind. Rain pours down in sheets, soaking the both of them. “Just a little longer. We're almost there.”

Her horse lets out a high-pitched whicker and dances forward, hooves gliding daintily over the muck. Aurora keeps the reins as loose as she can and pulls her cloak tighter. Beauty keeps her fingers steady, song keeps her on the same page as her mount, and grace ensures they keep good time despite the storm. She's terribly grateful for her fairy godmothers' gifts.

But that's what started all this, isn't it?

There was a storm like this the day of her christening, when her parents sent out three grand invitations to the event of the season, even though everyone knew there were four fairies who called this kingdom home. Tender Flora, warm Fauna, clever Merryweather, who blessed those around them and conjured happiness from thin air. And the fourth, the witch of thorns, whom nobody called on unless they had a problem which needed solving. Permanently.

Lightning flashes above them. The horse cries out and leaps sideways. Aurora sways with the motion even as her heart leaps into her throat. They come down lightly. The sky is pitch black above them, so thick with clouds that she can barely see the hand in front of her face. The hill ahead of them is a nebulous shape of bare, jagged rock, thick dark vines bursting forth from every nook and cranny. Thorns writhe as horse and rider approach. 

Somewhere up ahead, there's a castle – one carved by no human hand. Aurora's heard tales of what it looked like when it was still close enough to walk to. Before her parents offended its resident enough that he packed up and left.

At first, it seemed like another blessing. Then years passed and the troubles he'd once plastered over began to show. Famine. Drought. Disease. Banditry. Things a ruthless fairy could fix with a wave of his hand, for the right price, but good fairies had great difficulty wrapping their heads around. Aurora helped where she could. That was how she'd learned grace could be turned to swordsmanship and song to rallying people, and beauty – beauty was a currency all its own.

They'd made it through, in the end. But why had they been forced to? A single callous mistake. She's here to correct it now. 

Finally, the shape of the castle looms ahead of them. Aurora's horse plants her hooves in the muck and refuses to go any further. Aurora pats her gently and dismounts. “Thank you, girl. Wait for me? I won't be long.”

The horse neighs plaintively, but stays put. Aurora knows when to cut her losses. She shields her eyes from the rain and steps forward. It's a long walk to the castle's entrance. The darkness is deeper here, the footing more treacherous. Thorns lash out at her feet as she moves. She does not retaliate. This place holds a grudge already. There's no point in making things worse. At long last, the huge door bursts through the fog. She takes a moment to collect herself before she goes to knock.

“I wouldn't recommend that,” a deep voice murmurs from just above her head. “The vassals are still upset.”

“Ah,” Aurora says, and lowers her hand prudently. “And their master?”

“Saddened,” the voice muses, “or perhaps hurt. It's difficult to say. I haven't been asked in a while.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “May I turn around?”

“No one is stopping you.”

She turns around. The witch of thorns is tall and slender, dressed in deep black and bright acid green. Dead white skin glows faintly in the dark. If it weren't for the grayish tinge of his lips and the slit pupils hidden behind long lashes, he'd be the most beautiful man she's ever seen. As it is, he's simply the most beautiful creature she's ever seen. The last thing she notices is a pair of curved horns sprouting from either side of his head, coiling up toward the sky. You'd think they would be the first thing to draw her attention, but no. Funny how that works.

He doesn't seem angry at her, even though she's showed up on his doorway uninvited. If anything, he looks bitter.

“I came to apologize,” she says.

“What for?” he asks wryly. “Don't apologize for things you didn't do.”

So he knows who she is. That makes things easier. “Regardless, I have apologies to deliver. My parents are too old to make this journey.”

“Very well.” He says nothing more. That's fine. Aurora didn't expect forgiveness. Her parents might have hoped for it, but she likes to think she's more sensible than they.

“Now that that's over,” she says, reaching into her cloak, “I also had a gift. Please don't mistake this for another apology. It comes from a different place.”

“Very well,” he repeats.

Her fingers close on a wrapped parcel, as waterproof as she could manage, and then pause. It's rather fragile. But she supposes a fairy won't have trouble reading it, even if the rain blurs the ink. She pulls it out of its carrying case, revealing an envelope. This one isn't quite as fine as the ones sent out for her christening, when the kingdom was wealthier, but it's still a delicate and expensive piece of parchment.

He goes stock-still beside her. “This – what is this?”

She looks up at him, blinking away raindrops. “I'm getting married soon. It's going to be a grand event. I sent out invitations to everyone I could find, but I don't know your address, so I thought I'd come and invite you personally.”

“Oh,” breathes the witch of thorns, his green cat's eyes blown wide. He takes the envelope with trembling hands. “Thank you. You didn't have to.”

Aurora smiles. “But I wanted to.”

And that's all that needs to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after. Probably. 
> 
> The End.


End file.
